


in the green (in the dark)

by cygnes



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/cygnes
Summary: Bruce visits the conservatory.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://manzanas-amargas.tumblr.com/post/149608229660/batman-horror-poison-ivy-creates-a-dark-wood-in) on tumblr. Written for [dancinguniverse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse), for the prompt "Batman horror: Poison Ivy creates a dark wood in Bruce's own garden/greenhouse."

The conservatory dates from his grandfather’s time, or maybe earlier. Bruce remembers it dimly from his childhood. In his mind’s eye it is nearly bare, with a few gnarled shrubs in urns and white-painted wrought iron furniture. It was only ever opened for tours or big events. His parents preferred the outdoor gardens, when it came to plants. There were more possibilities, and fresh air. Bruce tended to agree.

The reality of the room does not match his memory. The marble floor had been pristine. Now moss grows up through the cracks between the tiles. And there are cracks _in_ the tiles, too: places where something is pushing up from underneath. The shrubs have broken out of their urns, still twisted and stunted from over-pruning but now with root systems seeking wider purchase. The air is humid. The white paint is peeling from the little bench and table and chairs.

He could restore it, if he wanted to, but between the Wayne Foundation and his personal vocation, there are uses for the funds that will do more tangible good. An overgrown conservatory, already a vestigial organ in the great beast of Wayne Manor, would be the least of Bruce Wayne’s eccentricities.

He goes there more often. There are new plants every time, which should be strange, but isn’t. The conservatory is quiet. It’s easy to meditate there, easier than anywhere else.

What was that poem— _the woods are lovely, dark and deep?_

It should trouble him that he starts to lose time. Time and focus, both precious commodities. But if something were really wrong, someone would notice. Someone would tell him. He has friends, he has family, even if they seem fewer and more distant.

Sometimes the door to the conservatory is locked. He doesn’t remember locking it, but there are a lot of things he doesn’t remember. A locked door is no obstacle. The conservatory is still, silent, waiting. He shouldn’t keep it waiting. He doesn’t want to wait himself.

“Don’t you want to go outside?” someone says, or (in low tones they think he can’t hear, but of course he can) “I locked the door, but I keep finding it open, and I don’t know how to keep him out of there.”

_the woods are_

_dark_

He wakes with the echo of a woman’s voice in his ears and a carpet of dead leaves under his cheek. The air is heavy with the scent of flowers. The furniture is stripped, rusted, and the conservatory has no door that he can see. The room was white, once, but now it is green on green on green.

Bruce closes his eyes and thinks of nothing at all.


End file.
